


Nightshade

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [8]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Angst, Dream Sex, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 10:18:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14518326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: He’d been dreaming about Chris, about his mouth, about that delighted smile he likes to wear going lazy as Seb licks at his throat, winds a vine of kisses down his chest, over his ribs.





	Nightshade

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Secrets, other (dark or criminal past; double lives; previous marriage and/or children; unspoken feelings).

A secret is a deadweight. It’s like a black hole in his soul, a gravity well, a doorway into his own personal hell, which is funny given that most people think about love in terms of flowers and rainbows, as an unabashedly Good Thing. Some people, Seb knows, spend their whole lives chasing it, reaching for the cotton candy feelings that the world tells them they should want, that they might even think they deserve. He’s never had to seek it out, love; he goes head over heels easily. Always has, even if he usually keeps those feelings to himself. But it’s never felt like this before, like something with teeth that’s consuming him, gnawing on his lungs and gnashing at his heart and making him bleed black and thick, a tar that sticks to his tongue, stops his feet, keeps him on his side of the door.

Until now, tonight, in Germany.

It’s two AM, nearly three, and something kicked him out of sleep hard, had him sitting up, panting, his hands in his hair, clutching his skull. Shaking, shaking. He’d been dreaming about Chris, about his mouth, about that delighted smile he likes to wear going lazy as Seb licks at his throat, winds a vine of kisses down his chest, over his ribs. He’d been dreaming of Chris’s fingers tucked against the back of his neck, warm points of pressure that push and flex and sigh when Seb gets it right. He’d been dreaming of the sleepy heat of Chris’s body, the slope between his hips, the noise he’ll make when Seb nuzzles the swell of his dick, buries his face there and breathes, breathes.

“Baby,” Evans says in his dream, his voice rough and silver, “the things you do to me.”

A dream, it was. Only. The fervent bloom of his secret, a nightshade, a poison he can’t ever allow to escape.

Except now he’s awake and he’s out of bed and he’s fumbling for his jeans in the dark, for his keycard, his shirt. His heart is a timpani and he isn’t thinking, he’s moving, driven by the hungry thing that’s inside him, the thing that wants, the thing he’d held back for so long, and now he’s letting it drive him down the hall in his bare feet to Chris’ door and the weight of it, his secret, is like a boulder in his fist, the one that knocks hard, the one that finds the wall and holds him up as his knees shake, as he waits.

Loving somebody you work with isn’t the worst crime in the world. Seb gets that. It happens to actors all the time, anyway; the kind of intense emotional pretending takes a toll on your inner compass, on your ability to distinguish between what’s real and what’s not. It’s fine. It’s even fun, sometimes, to wallow in feelings, a crush, without having to take any responsibility for them. And it’s a damn good way to get laid.

This thing his heart has for Evans, though, has gone way beyond that, and fuck, it’s dragged him down, made their relationship more complicated, though he’s sure Evans has no idea why. Why Seb can’t sit next to him between takes and shoot the shit like they use to, why he can’t come over on a day off and watch marathons of bad TV and see who could order the weirdest shit from room service and actually finish it. Why he can’t talk to Chris anymore, not about stuff that matters, because what he wants to say, what he aches to, is god help me, I love you and he can’t say that, can’t hang the weight of his secret around Chris’s neck and watch it drag him down, too. Because Chris doesn’t love him and he’d feel so guilty about it, turning Seb down, assuring him that nothing would change between them but of course of it would, of course. It would have to.

He presses his head to gold wallpaper and closes his eyes and knocks–what the fuck is he doing?–one last time.

And this time, the door opens.

This time, when he looks up, Evans is standing there, face creased with sleep, faded boxers pulled haphazard over his hips.

“Seb?” he croaks, squinting into the hallway. “Hey. What’s wrong?”


End file.
